


Tu'sea

by SE_Soignee (Soignee)



Series: Sirens Era [1]
Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Gen, Memory, Nostalgia, Sonder, eidetic memory, human/drell differences, soignee catnip: memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:22:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25428358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soignee/pseuds/SE_Soignee
Summary: Tu'sea:[tə si] Middle Aleise (Rakhana) in origin. A compound word taken fromtu("memory, breath, wave") andsea(“sand, small, layer.”) It is an abstract noun used in most modern drell languages to describe day-to-day living, of the memories formed on top of the other.(Alternately: Kolyat Krios and Oriana Lawson both explore what their first memory is, and whattu'seameans to them. Two short stories, each from their POV.)
Relationships: Irikah Krios & Kolyat Krios, Kolyat Krios & Thane Krios, Kolyat Krios/Oriana Lawson, Miranda Lawson & Oriana Lawson, oriana lawson & henry lawson
Series: Sirens Era [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1442938
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	1. The Death Of Berad the Snuldak

I am barely two years old and the centre of my world -other than my parents- is a coloured lump of plastic that can talk and flash lights. My father removed the voice chip after a week of noise, a merciful death.

It was still a favourite, despite the change. I understood why it happened, of course; an adult’s hindsight looking back. As a child, I did not quite connect the dots of my toy’s sudden silence. My mother told me that Berad the Snuldak needed an operation, that was all: _look, Kolyat- the pretty lights still work._

Noise or not, it was still a favourite. The memory goes like this: the toy is on the floor next to where my mother sleeps. I can see it light up from the cot in our room, a gentle wave of colour. I pull myself up by the bars, angry I’m in bed. The room is dark apart from the toy, and I see just enough to escape. It takes me three attempts to climb over the edge- I do so, and fall over. I’ve always wondered why this never hurt me, looking back- I can recall no pain. My aunt said children are mostly made of _ashea_ jelly at this stage of their life, and that I was no exception.

_-Gods help me,” Mami said, muffled by the pillow. I can see her frill bands glinting silver, even in the poor light. I clutch the toy to my chest, pleased with my bounty, and creep to the edge of her bed. “He can escape now, happy days.” Her hand falls over the mattress, and I hold onto it-_

Mami still scooped me up to hold me despite the interruption to her sleep, until I demanded a much too early breakfast. No Father in the memory, but he was working. Construction for a block of apartments at that point, the only assassination he did was on noisy toys. My first real experience of his wetwork, I suppose. The death of Berad, snuffed with a calibration tool.

It is a good memory, despite the intervention. I am fond of the recollection each time it comes, even though my mother was tired. Another moment of an adult’s perception creeping in like an unwanted house guest, a dark shadow over my childhood. At the time, Mother’s research project was de-funded by the university; I knew this from my father’s memories, but it explained something a younger me struggled with. Why Mami hid her sadness with a deception I could never place, though a dim awareness still glanced at my smaller fins, like a dip of lights from a passing skycar.

Ori thinks my recollection is nostalgia, a human-like sonder. I don’t think it’s an accurate translation of the word: _tu’sea_ , it’s called in my language. Quiet moments of living held like grains of sand in your hand, building over time.

They still shine like gold at their passing.


	2. A Shining Light Of A Distant Star

Time is non linear for memories, at least for me.

What you forget you can remember again, sparked by something. Chunks of my childhood never arrange themselves in an orderly way like a story, no matter how much I force them to. It’s still a filter of blur to sort through, like vids distorted by playback.

I remember the sink Omma washed me in, and the smell of the soap she used. A second later and it’s replaced by a memory of swimming, of flickering sunlight filtered by water. I think that’s my first, but I’m not sure. How could I be?

I remember my first instrument, a child’s violin placed in my hands by my father. He warned me to be careful -but not too careful- it was there to be used. I could barely write my name, but music was important, at least to us. Papa wanted me to learn as soon as I could talk, stubby fingers fumbling with strings. I don’t know why I chose the violin so young, but I did.

I don't remember Miranda. And I don't remember Henry Lawson, before you ask. Not the first time, anyway. I know she smuggled me out from him, wrapped in a white blanket. It was the only thing Randa took from my room- no toys, no clothes. Almost like a myth, a guardian angel and her ward.

Lawson showed me pictures of his home -our home, he said- when I bothered to speak to him at Sanctuary. All of it was mine, if I wanted it- and I didn’t. I have a false memory of the place, as strange as that sounds. Maybe a part of me wants to remember something. My imagination pieced together fragments made from the scraps I found, anyway.

The rooms were empty. That’s the best word for it, despite the money. A concept made by a man who thought he had taste, that if he paid enough designers, it could almost be a home. Lawson’s property was a monastery of grey and silence; the room he chose for me was just as sterile, the walls the exact shade of the blanket I was rescued in.

My parent’s entire apartment could fit into the en-suite alone, but space was a luxury in every language. He said he had it in mind since my creation, perfectly engineered for a child’s growth. It looked like a laboratory- it was one, I suppose. Dull walls and sharply lined furniture; bland toys neatly placed on shelves, all designed for learning.

That’s what I think of for first memories now. A vid shown by Lawson of a white room I can’t remember, but somehow feel I should. Reality is kinder, for once. Instead it’s giggling sink baths scented with standard issue Alliance soap, and dancing points of light. The muffled scrape of a plastic bow on plastic strings. My papa’s smile. Warm, hazy things.

My parents dug out that blanket and gave it to me after we met Randa for the first time, along with a stuffed animal I had since the beginning of my adoption. All my memories relating to both were tied to them and the apartment, not to _her_.

The corners were more frayed and worn than I remembered, an old childhood habit I had from worrying them. I knew I used it to tuck my toys in bed, small enough to be ‘their’ blanket. I tried sniffing the fabric, as if the act could trigger something. I could only smell detergent, a familiar scent of home.

I was trying to find a memory that wasn’t there. I could easily imagine the woman who rescued me, holding a swaddled lump of toddler to her chest with a gun in her hand. Far more visceral an image than my own dull recollection, that’s for sure.

Instead I thought about the things that I had. Because I remembered, then. The moments of luck found glittering: of the lessons that were paid for, despite my parent’s wage; the gifted Voirin bow after my first recital, donor unknown; random human food sent to the stores for us to find; a bully forced to move from Illium, thanks to her mother losing her job.

I sat in my childhood room and worked it out, a satisfying puzzle piece clicking into place. A sudden atari in Go, after a long battle with my laddered memory.

She was hidden away, that was all. Miranda was always there, shining distant as a star.

**Author's Note:**

> I was prompted on a discord to write a short sentence about my character's first memories, a theme I love. The sentence became two short stories; Kolyat's chapter is a redone version of an older work, but re-jigged to fit the concept. Ori's is new, start to finish.


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